


Nutcracker

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has anxiety, Developing Relationship, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Other, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), all your pronouns are belong to crowley, also: ladies' bathroom magic, but that's okay, the unique relationship of two complete strangers in a women's room, who would kill for each other but don't know the other's name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21665020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 3 of the incredible advent calendar of prompts.A century after their first viewing ofThe Nutcracker, Crowley and Aziraphale finally turn the outing into a date. Only, Crowley is having a bit of a crisis, first.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 30
Kudos: 210





	Nutcracker

It’s ten minutes to curtain, and Crowley is hiding in the bathroom.

Well. Not _hiding_. It’s just that there’s something wrong, and he can’t - won’t - join Aziraphale in the box while he’s…like this. Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with how he -

Fuck.

Crowley scowls at his reflection, fingers flexing on the edge of the sink. There’s nothing _wrong_ , no, but there’s something still not _right_. It itches under his skin like a cheap sweater, scratchy and unpleasant, a low-level irritant that has festered and grown with every passing moment until Crowley can barely think past it.

They’re here to see _The Nutcracker_ , a full century to the day from their first attendance. They’d missed the original production, much to Aziraphale’s dismay - Tchaikovsky is one of his particular favorites - but Crowley had scored prime seats for Gorsky’s rendition in 1919 and they’d both been in Moscow for work anyway. Convincing the angel to hold their surreptitious rendezvous at the ballet had barely taken any effort at all.

So when he’d seen the flyers for tonight’s show, the date, the time…he hadn’t been able to resist the gesture. And the excitement on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley handed him the tickets, well; in 1919 a smile like that would have done him in for certain. He only just barely survived it, as is. He’s barely going to survive the night.

This is a _date_ , the way their mutual attendance a hundred years prior couldn’t be.

This is a date, and he’d planned - he’d had a plan. A vintage suit, not the same as he wore in Moscow - Crowley keeps clothing, although he won’t admit it to Aziraphale, but he hadn’t been able to keep that one, for unrelated reasons - but the same cut, the same style. Dark and formal and dashingly stylish, the creases sharp enough to cut, with a subtle snake-and-feather pattern on the red silk lining. A show stopper. The sort of suit that would make his angel wriggle, and pet the fabric, and maybe (hopefully) inquire whether Crowley had gone in for the vintage underthings, as well…

Except when the time had come to dress for the evening, Crowley had reached right past the carefully selected suit. Reached past, even, the more modern suits, equally stylish; past the trousers, the evening coats. Past the menswear entirely.

Landed on the slim black column with the high neck, thigh slit, and plunging, draped back, and no matter how he’d reminded himself that there was a plan, he had a _plan_ , it was the dress he’d worn.

They’d agreed to arrive separately - a nod to their beginnings, to their history, even if Crowley had directed his suggestion to the ceiling instead of Aziraphale’s painfully soft expression - so for the first half of the drive to the theatre, everything had felt fine. Had been fine. But the closer the Bentley came to the theatre, the more he itched. It set up a home under his skin, gathered and multiplied there, until he’d had to breeze past Aziraphale with a “Meet you in the box, angel,” and hole up in the bathroom to fix it.

He’d changed lipstick, crimson to scarlet to wine and back to scarlet; switched from standard stilettos to the special snake-ankled heels; lengthened his hair until it cascaded halfway down his back, and it all helped, but it wasn’t _enough_.

And now Crowley, demon, original tempter and temptation incarnate, is hiding in the bathroom of the Royal Opera House with a scant few minutes to curtain, one puzzled angel waiting alone in the box, and something _still isn’t right_.

Crowley releases the grip on the sink, fingers flexing with the release of tension. The sink, behaved enough not to crack under demonic pressure, fills the warped edges back in slowly while Crowley’s hands flutter to smooth at the silk of the dress, pluck and fidget at the hips. Tug the edges of the thigh slit to just the right angle, consider - then change it back again.

A moment of glaring at the mirror, and Crowley reminds themself: _he’s not going to mind._

“Looking like that? Honey, I hope not.”

With a swoop of dismay, Crowley realizes the reminder was _out loud_ ; the woman two sinks down, previously unnoticed in the fuss and fret, is looking over at the demon. There is a moment where they consider miracling her into obliviousness - and then her words filter through.

“It’s - it’s fine,” Crowley manages, not entirely sure why they’re answering. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course it will, honey.” Her accent, and her endearment, give her away as American. Southern, by the roundness of her vowels - Georgia, maybe, or Alabama. Somewhere hot and humid and historically less forgiving of those who are…different.

“He has absolutely nothin’ to complain about. You’re gorgeous - look at you.”

Crowley blinks at her behind designer glasses, smooths trembling fingers over silk again. “He - he’s seen me before. Like this. Like -” an awkward hand wave, while Crowley attempts to marshal a coherent sentence, and she smiles.

“Lucky him.”

Crowley realizes the hand wave might have indicated the dress, and not - not the corporation. Their hand - and mouth - hang open for a fragile moment, and they manage to add “Not - not the dress -” as a quiet alarm buzzes in the back of their skull, a reminder that this may not be the _best_ misconception to correct…

But something has clicked on behind her eyes, and her smile has gone from the careless kindness of a stranger to something warmer, more knowing. More caring. She moves forward, takes the half-raised hand, and there is a softness in her face that Crowley has only rarely seen, and most often from Aziraphale. A softness born of knowing, of realization. Of understanding.

“He absolutely will not mind,” she declares, Crowley’s hand clasped gently in both of hers. “You’re going to knock his socks off.”

Crowley, absently, thinking idly of sock garters and the angel’s tendency to cling to things long out of fashion, mutters, “Unlikely.”

There is a magic in women’s restrooms. Crowley should know - they’ve made use of that magic for no small number of miracles, both as a part of the Arrangement and, more surreptitiously, of their own will. There’s a sense of sisterhood, of belonging, of unconditional acceptance that somehow crops up when two women, previously unknown to each other, stand in the same public restroom. Something about vulnerability in a semi-public place, sometimes - though certainly not always - paired with the lowered inhibitions and effusiveness that come from inebriation…it’s a safe place. A haven.

This is not always true, much to both Crowley and Aziraphale’s chagrin. People can just as easily be cruel as they are kind, and certain people delight in denying community and acceptance to others, and the worst bits of humanity often brush against, and push at, the edges of the best. But more often than not the strange aura of a women’s restroom is kind, and welcoming, and protective, and inside those sheltering walls complete strangers will share the contents of their purses, or their minds, or their hearts, with someone who needs it.

And that’s exactly the sort of haven Crowley finds on offer now - the fierce protectiveness born between two strangers in a women’s public restroom.

“Honey, if he isn’t absolutely blown away by you, you come find me, and _I’ll_ knock his socks off. With my fist,” she adds, and Crowley can’t help but laugh.

“It’s - no. You’re right. I’m just -” a breath, a hesitation. Crowley considers, for a brief second, waving it all away, swallowing back the words and pushing through the itching, not-quite-right feeling under their skin - glances at soft green eyes, a gentle smile, the open face of a woman who can, and will, fight a complete stranger for you if you ask her to. Reconsiders. “I’m nervous. Something’s…something’s not quite right.”

Those eyes light up in challenge, perfectly lined rose lips screwed up in thought, and Crowley’s bathroom confidant steps back just enough to give them a thorough once over. After tilting her head, first to one side, then the other, she hums.

“Do you mind?”

At Crowley’s shrug of assent, she smiles, reaches over, and tugs the waterfall of hair so that it drapes artfully over one shoulder. Then she places her hands on Crowley’s shoulders, one for each, and turns them both to face the mirror. Smiles.

“There you are.”

Crowley stares at their reflections and feels the underskin itch vanish - for good.

“There I am,” she agrees, and their twin smiles rival the vanity bulbs for brightness.

* * *

It’s by happenstance - certainly not demonic intervention - that they run into Bathroom Confidant at the end of the night. The crowd had stood through two ovations, called the cast back out for a second round of bows, until finally the curtain fell and the house lights rose, and still no one seemed to want to leave; half the audience clustered through the entry hall, fiddling with coats and scarves, standing in clumps and lingering indoors in the warmth of the post-ballet energy. Crowley spots her across the way, deep in conversation, but not so deep she misses Crowley’s distinctive red hair as they pass; their eyes meet, and Bathroom Confidant beckons them over, leaning over to share some comment with her companion.

When they round a clump of people and Bathroom Confidant sees they’re arm-in-arm, she grins.

“What a stunning pair the two of you make.”

Aziraphale pats the hand tucked into his elbow and gives Crowley a smile. “She’s the stunning one, I’m afraid.”

They hadn’t needed to discuss anything, once Crowley slithered into the box with just seconds to curtain; Aziraphale, for all his seeming absent-mindedness, also seems to have an angelic sixth sense for Crowley’s proper pronouns. He had complimented her dress just before the lights fell, and her hair at length during intermission, and not made a single comment about how Crowley had been presenting distinctly male for the past few years. Not that she’d expected him to, in truth, but the easy, casual acceptance, and the way the angel’s hand had curled possessively around hers the moment the lights dimmed, had settled those last jittery bits deep down where Crowley tried to bury them.

“Nonsense,” Bathroom Confidant argues. “Y’all are pretty as a picture, all contrastin’ like that. Don’t you think, babe?”

Bathroom Confidant’s companion smiles fondly over at her, then turns a more formal smile on the duo. “Indeed you do. Hello, I’m Priya Thompson-Burns, as my wife has failed to properly introduce us.”

She shakes hands with Aziraphale, then nods to Crowley. Her English is crisp, London through-and-through, and she’s dark where her wife is fair; they, too, are a study in contrasts, shades of sepia and honey, dressed in muted fabrics that cause them to practically glow, with matching bright flashes of silver on their hands. Crowley can see why Bathroom Confidant is so taken with contrast - individually, they’re beautiful, would be to even a casual onlooker, but together? Together, they shine.

“I’m Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.” Aziraphale, ever proper, is managing the introductions, though his hand has returned to cover Crowley’s where it rests in the curve of his elbow. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Priya offers, and subtly nudges her wife.

“Oh, I’m Delilah,” Bathroom Confidant adds, and steps forward to throw her arms around Crowley -

\- who hugs her back, albeit one-handed, as Aziraphale is still in possession of her right. There’s a suspiciously fond sparkle in the angel’s eyes when they separate, and a twitch to his lip, which Crowley resolutely ignores while Delilah gushes.

“- told Priya she was absolutely gorgeous, honestly, and if you hadn’t known what was good for you we’d have taken your wife home with us -”

“I’m not quite so lucky, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale interrupts. When Delilah quirks a brow at him, he clarifies, “Crowley hasn’t yet done me the honor of making an honest man of me.”

There is a beat as the words sink in all around - Priya is holding the stiffly polite look of someone preparing to weather an awkward moment, and Delilah’s face is beginning to morph into something horrified - before Crowley, too stunned to think, settles her free hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

“Angel,” she breathes, and for all it doesn’t sound like it, it’s a question. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale adds softly, as if aware he’s just cracked Crowley’s chest wide open and exposed her beating heart to the world, “I suppose that’s because it’s a conversation I hadn’t yet been brave enough to broach.”

Crowley is vaguely, peripherally aware of Delilah’s fluttering gasp, of Priya making a polite and thoughtful escape, tugging her wife alongside, somehow holding Aziraphale’s card despite the angel having neither moved nor owned a business card ever before in his life. But her whole world has narrowed down, down, down, to the twinkling blue of her angel’s eyes, the cloudfluff white of his hair, the cautious, questioning curve of his smile.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes again.

And this time, it’s an answer.


End file.
